


No Way

by Russ (Quasar)



Series: Time Heals [7]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Russ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair asks Simon to get Jim to talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Way

**Author's Note:**

> Written March 1998. Takes place after the episode "Secret."

Captain Simon Banks looked up as the most unorthodox member of his department stepped into his office. "Sandburg, what are you doing here? Jim's got the day off."

"I know," said the grad student nervously. "I wanted to talk to you, Simon -- privately?"

Simon raised his eyebrows. "Close the door, then."

Sandburg clicked the door shut and swung his ever-present backpack down to the floor. "Umm, I have a favor to ask."

Simon held his hands up. "Whoa-whoa-whoa. Just because you and me managed to work together without killing each other while Jim was kidnapped, that doesn't mean you get most-favored-person status."

"I realize that, but this is about Jim."

"Is he going stir-crazy already?"

"No. Well, yeah, he's really frustrated that you made him take time off, says he's already recovered from being drugged. But that's not it."

"What is it, then?"

"I don't know, that's the problem! He's really tense about something, but he totally refuses to talk to me."

"He seemed all right yesterday morning. Joking, laughing . . ."

"But he wasn't funny! His timing was way off. Jim can be a lot funnier than that when he wants to, but it was like he was distracted. I was wondering if, maybe . . . you could talk to him?"

Simon leaned back in his ergonomic desk chair. "How am I supposed to talk to him if I don't know what to talk _about_?"

"Well, I mean draw him out."

"Uh-huh. And what makes you think he'd talk to me, if he won't talk to you?"

"Well, you're his closest friend -- in the department, anyway."

Simon sighed. "Yes, I am his friend, but I'm also his commanding officer."

"I'm thinking that's a plus, actually. I mean, whatever's bugging him, it has to be something to do with Colonel Oliver, with Peru, something like that. Jim just doesn't think I can understand that macho Army stuff, so he doesn't even give me a chance."

"Sandburg, I was never in the Army either."

"No, but you are a cop, and you are in command of a lot of people here. I mean -- I know Jim feels like he totally failed his people in Peru. He has nightmares about it."

"Sounds like I should refer him to the department shrink."

"Come on, Simon! He'd really clam up, then. I'm just saying, you can connect with him on that responsibility issue. I mean think about it. How would you feel if everybody in Major Crime got killed off one day?"

Simon sat forward with a metallic thud. "Jesus, Sandburg! Don't even say things like that!"

"Fine. But Jim had to live through it. And he needs to talk to someone, and he won't talk to me."

"Look, Sandburg, whether I could connect with Jim, or sympathize or empathize or whatever you expect me to do, I still don't see how you expect me to get him to tell me his troubles in the first place!"

"Get him drunk."

"What?"

"Use the old drinking-buddy routine. Get him to loosen up a little bit. Then he'll talk."

"I thought you disapproved of that sort of thing."

"That's exactly why Jim won't buy it if _I_ try something like that. At this point, I think it's more important that he _does_ open up than _how_ he opens up, if you see what I mean. If he keeps this inside much longer, he's gonna blow."

Simon squinted thoughtfully. "Don't you think you're overdramatizing here?"

"Look, I'm the one that shares an apartment with him. You haven't seen him -- he's been like a caged panther the last couple of days! I'm telling you, Jim needs to talk to somebody. He won't talk to me; I've tried. He snaps and snarls at every word I say. You're next up at bat -- as his friend _and_ his boss." Sandburg slung the backpack over his shoulder again. "Now, I've already told Jim I'm going to be out late tonight. You should have no trouble convincing him to go out for a couple drinks with you. All you have to do is make sure it's more than a couple." He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Oh, and Simon?"

"Yeah?" the captain said warily.

"Be careful. Jim has weird reactions to sedatives, painkillers, stuff like that. I haven't seen him get drunk since his senses kicked in, so I don't know what'll happen."

"You saying Ellison will get even weirder when he's drunk?"

Sandburg glared. "I'm saying, don't try to match him drink for drink."

 

.o(0)o.

Simon watched his best detective knock down his fifth shot of Jack Daniels in the past half-hour. So far, Jim wasn't showing the slightest sign of intoxication. With a sigh, Simon made a signal to the bartender. Thanks to a little discussion and a hefty tip earlier in the evening, the man came right over to their corner table with another shot of whisky and a refill of Simon's 'martini,' which was actually innocent enough that he could have given it to Daryl. Not that his son was crazy enough to drink something this disgusting.

"Think I'll get promoted?" Ellison asked out of the blue.

"Huh?" Simon had gotten so used to the man's silence he was stunned to learn that Jim could still speak.

"Y'think I'll ever make captain?"

Simon considered. "You've got a good chance, with your record. And your attitude has improved a lot since --" About to say, 'since you started hanging out with Sandburg,' Simon amended his words. "-- Since I first met you."

Jim grunted. "Have to do something about that."

"What?"

"Bad attitude. Whatever it takes. I don't want to be a captain. Command is a bitch."

Simon began to see where this was leading. Score one for Sandburg, he thought.

"Ever lose one of your men?"

Simon stared into his ice-water-and-olive. "I've buried five men since I became captain," he said softly. He didn't even have to think about the names; they came to him instantly.

"Yeah, but did you ever hold them while they died? Look into their eyes? Know there was nothing you could do, and they knew it too?"

Unable to think of anything to say, Simon took a slug of his drink.

"Ever bury 'em with your own hands, with a makeshift shovel and no goddamn tombstone or flag or honor guard -- nothing but a handful of dog-tags to mark the graves?"

Simon set his empty glass back on the table, toying with the olive on its plastic stick.

"Y'know, and I used to tell myself, 'At least Sam isn't here. At least he made it out alive.'"

Simon looked up. "Sam Holland?"

"Yep. He didn't come with us. Sick, you know. Or so he said. And then I got to thinking. All those months in the jungle, no one to talk to -- I got kinda paranoid, you know? Realized how far off Oliver sent me with his bogus information. Wondered if it was on purpose. Wondered if Sam was in it with him. God! Sam was so naive when he wanted to be, you know? Probably believed every line the colonel ever fed him. But I wouldn't talk to him after I got back. Didn't want anything to do with him or the colonel. And then -- then he shows up, and he's gotten himself in trouble, and he's so fucking scared. And all I do is stand there and watch those bastards drive right up and shoot him!"

"It wasn't your fault, Jim."

"Last man in my unit. The last fucking survivor of all the men under my command -- and now he's dead, too, because he came to me for help."

"It was Oliver that had him killed, Oliver's men that pulled the trigger."

"And how hard did I try to get him out from under the colonel's thumb, huh? I just let him follow the colonel down to Florida and never warned him, never -- I thought he was in it with him, you know? I should've known. I should've gotten him out of there."

"Jim, it was his choice to stick with Oliver. He had to have clues before now about what Graf Technologies was really up to. He just ignored them as long as he could, and when he couldn't overlook it anymore, he blew his cover instead of getting help quietly. It wasn't your fault, Jim. You did everything you could, but you were betrayed."

Jim just stared into his empty glass until the bartender removed it and placed a seventh in front of him. "Sam had a crush on me, you know," he said casually, toying with the amber liquid.

If Simon's drink had really contained alcohol, he would have spit it all over the table.

"Kept making passes at me at first. I told him no way, but he kept trying. Finally I had to sit him down and say, even if he wasn't a man, even if it wasn't for all the damn rules, there's just no way I would do that with a guy under my command. You know? It's harassment. It just isn't right, any way you look at it."

Simon remained absolutely motionless, waiting to hear what Jim would say next.

"And that's what's so funny about it. I mean, first there's Sam, totally infatuated with me, and I tell him there's just no way. No way. And then there's Sandburg."

"Are you saying . . . Sandburg has a crush on you?" Simon said cautiously. This could be serious.

Jim laughed bitterly. "His mother thinks so."

This time Simon did spit water on the table. "She _told_ you that?"

"Oh, yeah. She's totally open minded, you know. Nothing against her son being in love with a man. It's just him spending time with a cop that she objects to."

Simon stared aghast.

"But she's totally wrong. Sandburg doesn't think about me like that. I mean, if anyone would know, I would, right? I'm just a big brother to him. The father figure he never had." Jim knocked back his eighth shot of whiskey.

"And . . . you want to be more than that?"

"Do I? I don't know. I mean, look what I said to Sam. I really meant that, you know."

"Sandburg isn't under your command."

"No, he's under my _protection_. That's even worse. I can't do it to him, Simon. Even if it wouldn't totally ruin my life and piss off his mother. What's he going to do? Move out? You know he gave up his teaching fellowship to work full-time on his dissertation. On me. That means there's no way he can afford rent. I just can't do that to him. No way."

"Would you want to, if that wasn't a problem?"

"Shit, Simon, I don't know. Don't know what I think or feel anymore. It's just . . . he's a good kid, you know? The best partner or friend I ever had." A slow, sappy smile formed on Jim's flushed face. "You know that arson stakeout a few weeks back?"

"Yeah?"

"First time I ever had to spend so long with him in a confined space. I thought he'd drive me crazy at first. Kid can talk your ear off, y'know?"

"I know," Simon said drily.

"But it was good. He can shut up when he wants to. And when he talks, it's interesting. Real stuff -- or at least, different stuff. Not the same old stories and bad jokes you'd hear from anyone else. He makes you think, you know? Expand your mind."

"Sounds like a decent way to stay awake."

"And he's always there. He was so determined not to leave me alone on that stakeout. He was freezing half to death -- five layers of clothes, and he's still shivering -- but he wouldn't leave. And then when -- when I was blind . . . shit, he never doubted me. He showed me how to get around, backed me up all the way, and saved my ass when I got into trouble. And nearly got killed because of it."

"That wasn't your fault either, Jim."

"Wouldn't have happened if I'd dropped the case. If he'd eaten just a few more bites of that damn pizza . . . oh God, if the overdose hadn't killed him, I bet some cop would have. How many sharpshooters had a bead on him in that garage?"

"You talked him down, Jim. You got him to safety in time."

"And he wouldn't blame me. Not for a second. Wouldn't even tell me how _stupid_ it was trying to work when I couldn't see. Shit! How can I, how can I . . . how can I put pressure on him? How can I try to force him to see things my way? He'd just give in, give me whatever he thinks I want . . . it just wouldn't be fair."

"Hang on a minute, Jim. You know the kid can stand up for himself. He doesn't let people push him around."

"Lets me. He does. Thinks I'm some kind of superhero or something."

"Don't you think you're getting a little above yourself, here?"

Jim spun his shot glass idly. "I said no to Sam, so now this is happening to me. Must be karma." He laughed, like a sob. "See, now the kid has me talking like him!"

Simon waved away the bartender as he approached with another tray. "Okay, Jim. I think you've had enough. Let's go home now."

"No way. Sandburg'll be there. Can't let him see me like this."

"Fine, you can come to my place. We both have tomorrow off; you can sleep in." Simon put a hand under his detective's elbow and hauled.

Jim was surprisingly wobbly on his feet. He held up an arm to shade his eyes from the dim lights. "Whoa. Can't see straight. Where's the door?"

"Just follow me, Jim. Take it easy." Simon led his charge out to the parking lot and stuffed him into the seat of his car.

"Hey, Simon?" Jim covered his eyes with both hands as streetlights streamed past.

"Yeah, Jim?"

"Don't tell Sandburg what I said, okay?"

"I won't Jim, I promise."

When they reached Simon's house, he put the detective in Daryl's bedroom, made sure there was a tall glass of water next to the bed, and picked up the phone to call Sandburg.

It was answered on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Yeah, it's me. I've got Jim at my place."

"Did you -- is he --?"

"He'll be fine."

"Is he really drunk?"

"Oh, yeah. He's embarrassed as hell and he doesn't want you to see him like this."

"Don't tell him that!" a voice wailed from the spare room.

"And he can hear every word I say," Simon added belatedly.

"Um. Yeah. Okay, well if you're sure he's all right."

"I'm sure."

"Just make sure he doesn't get dehydrated, okay?"

"Sandburg, this isn't the first time I've dealt with a drunk."

"Yeah, but this is Jim. If he has any trouble with his senses -- if the hangover throws them out of whack or whatever -- you can call me. Anytime, okay?"

"I'll keep it in mind. Right now he's fine, so just stop worrying."

"All right. Thanks, Simon."

"Good night, Sandburg." Simon hung up to find Ellison stumbling out of the bathroom. "You got everything under control, Jim?"

"Yeah, 'm fine," the detective mumbled. "Jus' need t'sleep."

"That sounds like a good idea. Can you get into bed by yourself?"

Jim didn't answer, leaning against the doorway of the spare room. "Did I talk enough?" His voice was suddenly clearer.

"What?"

"You wanted me to talk, right? So I talked. Did I say what you wanted to hear?"

Simon closed his eyes. "What makes you think I was trying to get you to talk?"

"Come on, Simon. You got me drunk on purpose. Does water with an olive taste good? Sure smells bad."

"Jim . . ."

"Y'know, if I didn't know what Sandburg thinks about drunkenness, I'd think he put you up to it." Jim squinted at his boss. "Shit, your heart's going faster. He did put you up to it, didn't he? You going to report back to him?"

"Jim, anything you said is between the two of us. Sandburg just thought you maybe needed to let off a little steam. I promise I won't tell him anything you said."

"Yeah. Right." Jim's knees sagged suddenly.

"Whoa!" Simon caught his friend before he could slump to the floor entirely. "Let's get you horizontal, man."

"You say anything to him, I'll kill you," Jim mumbled into the mattress as his shoes were pulled off. "I can do it, you know. Hide the body. Nobody ever know."

Simon pulled a blanket over his wayward detective. "Go to sleep, Jim. We'll deal with it in the morning."


End file.
